


beautiful boy

by SEXY sciencebutch (sciencebutch)



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Body Worship, F/M, No Plot/Plotless, Post-Episode: s02e11 Fear Her, Smut, That is all, also the doctor has a vulva, gratuitous quoting of the i believe in her speech
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:07:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23590588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencebutch/pseuds/SEXY%20sciencebutch
Summary: “You know I heard that, right?” Rose says as she and the Doctor walk back into the TARDIS. She smiles cheekily as she leans on a coral pillar of the ship, still buzzing from the adventure that had just transpired.The Doctor gives her a look over the console. “Heard what?”“You’d thought I called you a beautiful boy,” Rose says teasingly.The Doctor sniffs, nonchalant. “No I didn’t,” he denies, not meeting her gaze. He was afraid he’d get lost in it if he did; sink into it and get stuck in it like a bug gets stuck in sap.
Relationships: Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler
Comments: 4
Kudos: 47





	beautiful boy

**Author's Note:**

> i started this like 8, 9 months ago because i was horny on main and i have just now gotten around to finishing it. thanx

“You know I heard that, right?” Rose says as she and the Doctor walk back into the TARDIS. She smiles cheekily as she leans on a coral pillar of the ship, still buzzing from the adventure that had just transpired. 

The Doctor spins past her, waltzing in the way he did when he drove, flicking levers and pushing buttons and occasionally, gracefully, hitting the console with a mallet. It was a well coordinated and choreographed dance that almost always took them where they didn’t want to go. Rose watches him intently, tongue-touched smile still etched on her face. 

The telltale sound of the TARDIS dematerializing echoes across the console room as they left London and entered the Vortex. 

The Doctor gives her a look over the console. “Heard what?”

Rose’s smile widens. Before the Doctor—her first Doctor, all ears and leather and sass—had grabbed her hand in the shop basement and shouted: “ _run_!”, she’d never grinned as wide as she does now. It was the sort of grin that lingers, that makes your face ache when it departs. 

“You’d thought I called you a beautiful boy,” Rose says teasingly. 

The Doctor sniffs, nonchalant. “No I didn’t,” he denies, not meeting her gaze. He was afraid he’d get lost in it if he did; sink into it and get stuck in it like a bug gets stuck in sap. 

“Yeah, you did,” Rose replies. She straightens from where she was leaning on the coral and walks towards him slowly, like each step had been meticulously planned out. Her eyes are alight with mirth and something the Doctor dared not name. Something that showed in the slight curve of her brows and in the wrinkle of her eyelids. Something that made heat pool in the Doctor’s navel, all deep and untouchable. Like an itch you can’t reach that lies under the skin. “You said you’d been experimenting with backcombin’,” Rose leans on the console, her eyes glinting like amber. 

The Doctor was rendered rather speechless. “Well,” he says. Pauses. Thinks. “Well,” he tries again, drawing the word out a bit more. “I mean...”

He didn’t know what he meant. He just said things and hoped his train of thought would follow a coherent railroad. 

Right now the train wasn’t even leaving the station. It was stuck in the honey of Rose’s eyes, in the nectar that shone as the tip of her tongue licked her lips. 

“Yes...?” Rose bites her bottom lip tauntingly, grin still pasted on and puckish. She steps closer, fingers trailing on the console. The Doctor stares at them intently and swallows. Her pointer and middle fingernails are trimmed down and dull. The others are long and pointed. 

“Uhm,” he says, entirely composed and eloquent and not at all weak at the knees. 

The Doctor peels his gaze off her hand and makes the grave mistake of looking in Rose’s eyes. Had he not done this, he would’ve played this whole conversation off, would have bounded away and changed the subject. But he did. He looked, and he got caught in the shine of her irises like a bee drowns in syrup, entranced by the sweet stickiness of it. Mesmerized like a sailor lured to death by a siren. 

He looked. And he stands still. And he blinks. And he swallows. 

His respiratory bypass kicks in. 

Rose’s pupils are blown wide and deep. His telepathic empathy can sense her lust as she gets closer, like a trickle of warm water down the back of his neck. The Doctor finds himself reciprocating her feelings. 

He always has. He always will. 

The heat in his stomach swells. There's infirmity in his knees, a tingle dancing on the inside of his thighs. 

“Uhm,” he stutters. Rose is close now. He can feel the heat radiating from her body. His hearts pound and flutter in his ribs. 

Rose lays a hand on the middle of his chest, almost definitely feeling the increased rhythm of his double heartbeat, because how could she not? Their vibrations cause tremors, cause earthquakes that damage the structural integrity of his legs. He feels he might fall over.

Her tongue pokes between her teeth again, perfect and pink and teasing and the Doctor wants to reach for it with his own but he’s frozen. His navel feels like it’s boiling, like it’s absorbing the heat from his limbs and freezing them so he can’t move.

Rose’s hand is the only other source of warmth on him; it seeps through his silk tie and dress shirt and skin and deep into his sternum. The Doctor peels his eyes from Rose’s and looks down at her palm. Her short round fingers. The two fingernails that are shorter and rounder than the rest. 

Neither of them move. Rose looks at the Doctor who looks at her hand and the hand doesn’t look anywhere because it doesn’t have eyes. The knife that’s been carving their relationship has separated from its usual whittled groove and has begun forming something new. 

Something fantastic. 

Something brilliant.

They’re both still. 

“This good?” Rose asks softly, the confidence stripped from her voice. 

The Doctor wants to tell her that it’s better than good, it’s perfect, it’s wonderful and perfect and terrific and _perfect_. It’s like the inherent rightness and satisfaction of a fixed point coming to fruition. It’s like a galaxy falling into alignment. It’s like _Rose_ , his perfect pink and yellow Rose. But his sentence got lost in his throat and emerged instead as a strangled: “Yes.” 

“Alright,” Rose nods and the Doctor can see constellations dazzle in her eyes. “...Mind if I kiss ya?” 

“Hhhh,” the Doctor breathes before his muscles remember how to work and he’s suddenly seizing Rose’s mouth with his.

Her lips are warm and wet like a sauna, and he can taste the earl grey from earlier still on her, detect that dollop of honey and cream she adds to her cuppa. Her tongue prods at his teeth, seeking entrance, and he allows it in. It swirls like smoke in his mouth, prodding the soft flesh of his cheeks, and it takes him a moment before he realizes he should reciprocate. The Doctor leans into her until their jaws are so close he can feel the pressure of her teeth against his through her lips. She tastes like the salt of the sea and strawberry jam and the cherry blossom perfume she uses.

Rose moans into him and the sound makes his knees wobble. He has to step back so he doesn’t collapse against her. Their lips part with a smack. His eyes are blurred and dazed. 

“Doctor...?” 

“Bed,” the Doctor manages. “My bed. Or your bed, any bed. Whichever is closest. If you want. Do you want to?” his vocal cords have finally cobbled themselves back together into something functional. 

“I’d love to,” Rose says, and the Doctor can hear the “ _I love you_ ,” hidden in the rhyming syllables.

“That’s good,” the Doctor is still staring at Rose like he’s forgotten that there was ever anything else to stare at. “I’d love to, too.”

“ _I love you, too_.”

Rose’s bedroom is the first door on the left as they leave the console room, and Rose’s hand is clasped in his as if they’re running to another adventure. She’s grinning, and there’s a tightness in his cheeks and he realizes that he is, too. 

Her room is pink and perfect like her, and something in him realizes that this is the first time he’s ever been in it. There’s glossy tubes and matte compacts of makeup on the dresser, polaroids and framed photographs of Jackie and Mickey, various alien knick-knacks and souvenirs; a melding of both of Rose’s worlds - human and alien. There are dirty clothes littering the floor, and her bed is still mussed up and unmade; the plush hot pink comforter has fallen halfway off and slouches on the ground. 

They stand on the threshold of her room, and Rose loosens his tie with her perfect round fingers, her eyes utterly focused on accomplishing her task. She unbuttons the first button on his suit jacket with one deft movement, then the second, then the third, all the way down until it parts and she starts anew with his dress shirt. Her hand pushes underneath the fabric of his shirt and onto his bare chest, and it’s so _warm_ , her palm, the human-heat like a hot bath. 

The moment is oddly intimate, almost more so than a kiss. It feels like she’s traipsed through his armor, reached right through his coat and jacket and shirt to look right at his beating hearts. It’s been a while since he’s been undressed in front of anyone else. It’s vulnerable. His breath hitches, and he notices that he’s breathing again instead of using his respiratory bypass.

He can be vulnerable for Rose. She deserves it.

“Rose,” he says, just for the sake of saying her name. It tastes good on his tongue, feels at home on his lips. 

“Doctor,” Rose looks up from his hearts and into his eyes and he feels lost and found at the same time, “ _my_ Doctor.”

“Your Doctor,” he confirms.

Then they’re kissing, desperately, Rose pushing him against the doorframe while the Doctor wraps his arms around her and pulls her close, close, _close_ , so close and hot against him. And he’s moaning and humming into her mouth and Rose is rubbing her plush thighs together and then they’re stumbling without parting towards the bed and the back of his legs meet the mattress and buckle and he’s sitting and she’s climbing on top of his lap and it’s more than he could have ever dreamed.

They separate, their noses mere inches apart. The Doctor thinks the distance is too far, and wonders how he ever endured having more than a centimeter of space between them. They’re both panting and out of breath and it feels like they’ve just run from some threat, their touches feel electric and alive. Rose’s exhales are like breathing in steam. She stares at him, and he can see her working up the courage for something in the depths of her eyes. 

“Lay down,” she directs at last. She tries to sound demanding, but there’s a waver in her voice. The Doctor indulges in her dominance and leans back so he’s horizontal. And then she’s straddling his waist.

He, the Doctor, is being straddled by Rose Tyler. He smiles as he goes down, teasingly responds with a “Yes, sir.”

The Doctor meant it as a joke, a simple jest that they’d both laugh off in breathy little giggles. He didn’t mean for it to cause the heat in his navel to blossom and unfurl and for Rose to groan and grind into his hips reflexively. Their eyes meet, both blown wide with want. The Doctor licks his lips. 

This is...an interesting development. One he would very much like to explore further.

“Oh,” he whispers. 

“Good?” Rose asks, unsure. The Doctor nods.

“Wonderful - brilliant, in fact,” he confirms. Rose regains her confidence and then her face is looming over him, her stomach and breasts flush against his body (and _Rassilon_ , she’s so hot, and he’s drawn to her like a moth to a flame, like the Isolus to heat. He doesn’t know how he could stand being so cold, before. He grabs her at the small of her back to pull her even closer). The Doctor can see her tongue peeking out from between the teeth of her smile, pink and round like the bud of a flower, and he wants to taste it, wants to taste _her_. “Perfect…” his voice tapers off into a whisper, his gaze bouncing between her mouth and her eyes. She lowers her head to that space beneath his jaw, and her lips are there, suctioning and pulling at him and her tongue is dancing across his skin. 

“Wanna keep doing it?” she whispers, the hiss of her breath eliciting a shiver from him.

“Yes, sir,” he replies.

Rose shifts against him, the friction sparking even more heat between them, and the itch in his stomach is momentarily blissfully satisfied. A whimper bubbles up his throat, all pleading and begging and he can feel her smile on his neck. She leans up and whispers into his ear: “Good.” Her breath is humid and hot and he can feel it condensing on the goosebumps that have colonized his skin. He quivers underneath her, as if each one of her exhales into his ear is a bolt of lightning, electrocuting him, zipping and zapping down his spine and into the deep cavern of his navel, setting him ablaze like a match to gunpowder.

He whines, pride all but forgotten as Rose nips at his earlobe.

Rose moves on top of him again, her pelvis swaying in rhythm with her lips, which are still on his skin, travelling down his neck to his collar bones to his stomach, and he almost writhes beneath her. Rose forces him still by pushing on his left shoulder, and an involuntary gasp flees the Doctor’s mouth, followed by a loud cry. His hands fist the duvet, churning the fabric into wrinkled pink waves. Rose’s hand removes itself from his shoulder, and her mouth leaves his stomach. He feels cold without her touch.

“You alright?” she sounds unsure, worried that she’d hurt him.

The Doctor nods breathlessly, still reeling from her touch, “Nerve cluster, there,” he pants, “sensitive, like—” Rose hesitantly put her hand back on him, and he inhales sharply. “like-like-like, _like_ ,” she experimentally exerts more pressure, and the Doctor whimpers, his thought processes immediately cut short.

“Feel okay?” Rose asks. The Doctor nods desperately.

“P-please,” he says, begging for no discernible reason, his toes curling, “y-yes, bri-bri-brilliant.”

“Want me to keep goin’?” Rose asks, and he can’t see her, but he _knows_ there’s that teasing tongue-touched smile between her cheeks.

“ _Yes,_ _yes_ , keep going, never stop, never ever..”

“Never say ‘never ever’,” she quotes his earlier words, her voice lilting. 

“Ngk,” he responds, his wit dulled by the sudden feeling of kisses right above his waistband, the control of his mouth rendered moot by his shoulder sparking and blaring and pulsing in tandem with his hearts.

The crown of Rose’s head gleams in the soft light of her bedroom like a halo as she sits up to unbutton his pants. 

“Can I--” she starts.

“ _Yes_ ,” he finishes.

Rose maneuvers herself so she’s sitting to the left of him. He whines at the loss of her warmth, the pressure of her. He feels too light, feels like he’s going to float away at any moment. He needs Rose back on top of him to keep him grounded. 

“ _Rose,”_ he mewls in protest.

“Gotta get off ya to take off your trousers, Doctor,” she says. He hums in a way that shows he understands but also hardly pleased about it. “A bit desperate, aren’t ya?” 

The Doctor grunts, bucks his hips in anticipation, as if to say “ _hurry up, will you?_ ”

Rose smiles and toys with her bottom lip. Slowly, she unzips his pants. Agonizingly, she pulls them down his thighs, his shins, until she tugs them off his feet and tosses them away to be muddled in with the rest of the dirty laundry on her floor.

He’s wet, he realizes; the dampness soaking through the fabric of his boxers. His hand seeks to delve under his waistband and get himself off, but Rose gently slaps it away. She tuts.

“Let me,” she whispers, voice smooth and sultry like the feeling of lust sliding down the back of his neck. 

“Yes, Sir, okay, okay,” he breathes. He’s enthralled, bewitched by her every word. Hypnotized by the sticky sweetness of her. She smiles at him, then pulls his boxers down. 

The Doctor is naked, bare, a babbling mess on the bedspread, while Rose is fully-clothed and slightly flustered but otherwise wholly composed. 

“Well that hardly seems fair,” he notes, too discombobulated to grant Rose the context to his words. 

Rose’s fingers graze delicately across the skin of his thigh, caressing the inside of it with all the gentleness of someone cradling fragile glassware. She guides his leg up, arching over her, and he willingly complies, moving with every hint of a touch. She scoots in so she’s between them, sitting in the V of his legs. 

“What doesn’t seem fair?” the pads of her fingers kiss the base of his thigh, where his femur meets his hip, and he shudders. The boiling heat in his stomach intensifies and his belly caves in anticipation. He nearly forgets how to breathe.

“You. You, not being--” he cuts himself off with a cry as Rose toys with his entrance, her pointer finger grazing his outer labia. “Not being--” he pants, “Not being undressed, as well, it’s--I want to see you. All of you.” 

Rose retracts her hand, looking down at herself. “Oh, right. Guess I just forgot.”

The Doctor stares at her a beat. Then his face splits and cracks into a grin and giggles spark and pop from his throat. 

“Oi, stop it, you,” she smiles back, laughing as she tugs her shirt off and starts fiddling with the clasp of her bra. Rose shrugs the undergarment down her shoulders. 

The Doctor sobers very suddenly and reaches a reverent hand to thumb at the rise and fall of her left clavicle. He sits up slowly, taking in the dip of her bellybutton, the peach fuzz hair trailing from it down into the depths of her jeans. The pudge of her stomach; the way it slightly rests and rolls on the waistband of her pants when she slouches. The incline of her wide hips. Her breasts, round and wonderful, nipples erect. 

Rose’s gleeful expression fades and morphs into something concerned. “Doctor?” she asks. The mood of the room has changed as swiftly as a light-switch being flicked. From lust to pure admiration in a blink.

The Doctor plants an abrupt kiss to her lips. He feels his hearts swell, feels his love for her cascade through every limb, surge and whirl in his belly until he feels so full with it tears sprout in his eyes. His legs wrap around her and constrict her close to him, and she’s even warmer without clothes. “Rose,” he says, voice so adoring she can’t help but gasp. “ _Rose_.”

He can’t think of much else to say. She’s fantastic and brilliant and _more_. She’s strong minded and stubborn, nurturing and empathetic, kind and selfless. Her smiles shine like a sun and there are constellations in the freckles on her shoulder and nebulae swirl in her eyes. “ _Rose_ ,” he speaks once more. Her name is synonymous with perfection, and he says it like a prayer. 

_He’s seen fake gods and bad gods and demigods and would-be gods._

Her hair gleams like gold, backlit by the dim, pink-tinged light of her room. He remembers when she was the Bad Wolf, when gold spilled out of every crack and crevice of her, when she was utterly infallible and omnipotent. The Doctor thinks she’s more indestructible as she is now: topless and sweaty, concern nicked in her brow. Utterly human. Breakable and unbreakable and perfect in all the contradictions and hypocrisy that comes with her species.

_And out of all that, out of that whole pantheon, if I believe in one thing--just one thing--_

_I believe in her._

“Are you alright?” 

He blinks and realizes he’s been staring at her like a loon.

“Just peachy. Perfectly fine--perfectly perfect, in fact,” his gaze turns mushy and all blurred at the edges. “You’re just perhaps the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, is all.”

Rose rolls her eyes and she blushes. He thinks it’s very cute; more pink on his pink and yellow human. “Stop lyin’,” she averts his piercing eyes by burying her head into the crook of his neck.

The Doctor is affronted and pulls back. “I’m not!” he scoffs. “You’re brilliant,” he pecks a kiss on the tip of her nose. “ _My…”_ his hands run over the hill of her hips. She shivers; his body temperature is colder than hers is. “Lovely, _perfect_ , Rose.”

Rose raises her head and smiles. Drapes her arms over his shoulders. “Really know how to flatter a girl, don’t you? _My_ ,” she emphasizes the word in the same way he had, “Doctor.”

The pads of his fingers tingle over the indent of her spine. “Well,” he drawls, “900 years of practice…” he raises his tongue to the roof of his mouth and smirks. “The hours add up.”

Rose hums. “All that time? How could I ever compare?” her nails tick into his shoulder blades, nicking faint white lines as they go. The Doctor swallows thickly, anticipation building in his gut again. He opens his mouth to speak, perhaps retort with something witty, but there are lips on his and he’s being pushed back down onto the mattress.

She starts peppering kisses down his chin, up the curve of his jaw. “I’m--” the Doctor tries and fails to say, as Rose does something rather creative with her tongue, “I’m sure you can figure something out—!” the pad of Rose’s thumb grazes across his nipple, the contact warm and sensitive, and the Doctor’s sentence ends in a shout.

“Hush now,” Rose whispers against his neck. He tries to lift his head and close that hairs width of space between them, but she pulls back and pecks his forehead. He whines. “Lemme take care of ya.”

He nods silently in response. He isn’t coherent enough for an eloquent answer.

Fingers touch and tingle across the bones of his hips and into the bowl of his stomach and down further until she’s back in the spot where they’d left off. Light touches kiss the insides of his thighs, moving steadily inward, upward.

His breath hitches in anticipation. And then his back arches and his hands grasp at sheets in a white-knuckled grip. 

The Doctor forgets how to breathe and how to blink and how to live when she finally reaches his vulva. Everything stops and nothing exists except for the flares of pleasure slithering up and down his spine. His brain is like static and his mouth is muttering something indecipherable in Gallifreyan. He’s come undone at the slightest touch, been unraveled like a knot when you pull a certain string.

“Rose—Rose— _Rose_ ,” he keens as she presses there on his outer labia, slowly kneading her way inwards, an excruciating rhythm, a swirling dance between her pointer and middle finger that sends him reeling.

He thinks he almost dies when she reaches his clitoris, every bit of him tensing and it feels like he’s regenerating like that golden energy is flowing through his veins and hearts and mind and he’s on fire and he’s sure he’ll emerge from this a different person and he hopes that Rose won’t mind, though she doesn’t seem to notice anything awry right now because her lips are at his jaw, kissing under and around it and sucking so hard he’s sure hickeys will bloom there later like violets.

For once in the Doctor’s life, he loses track of time, loses all senses except for touch, his navel neck jaw chest shoulder so overstimulated he isn’t able to comprehend anything else. And then, he falls. He falls, plummets off the face of the Earth, his hands unable to cling hard enough to the duvet to remain grounded, and he’s falling through a vortex of pleasure and he’s tense and relaxed and shaking and still.

“What was that, Doctor?” Rose asks, almost as breathless as he was.

He doesn’t remember saying anything, doesn’t even know he had the capability anymore, his tongue felt like putty.

“Not sure, don’t--don’tremember…” he breathes. His vision finally manages to clear, blinding static-white receding to his peripheral. He’s greeted with Rose’s tongue-touched grin. Her lips are thick and red from kissing. Red as a rose.

A dopey smile settles on his face at his metaphor.

“I’m assumin’ it was good then, yeah?” she asks, before leaning into his ear and whispering, “My beautiful boy.”

**Author's Note:**

> ive never written smut before. i probably never will again


End file.
